Last Night
by lost0and0found
Summary: A bar. A phone call. Something's missing. Love isn't enough, but it's a beginning. Sequel to 'Last Request'. Set during Obama's campaign. Non-canon.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm poor, etc.

_A/N: a sequel to 'Last Request', planned as a short multichapter. Differentiates in style though, so you've been warned. Thanks to everyone who requested this :)_

* * *

The room is dim and a blue neon keeps flickering from the the dark corner behind his back. On. Off. On. In a slow rhythm, matching the music and her catlike moves. Off.

She's twenty something, hair dyed with cheap red dye. She's wearing some sort of lacy nightgown she's currently taking off under the heat of his gaze. He's plastered all right, but his eyes are watching her in careful scrutiny.

She registers the intensity of his look and lowers her upper body right before his eyes. She smells like sweet perfume and he can tell she's applied fresh lipstick on her plump lips right before she came into this room that conjoins the bar. Then she's moving up again and reaches to unhook her bra.

'Hey...' he sighs and lifts a hand to make her a sign to stop.

Her eyes pause on the ring on his raised hand. Neon flickers in blue abyss. On. Then off. He feels dizzy. He can't remember how he came in here. One moment he was outside, thinking the place must be really filthy, then he finds himself in a scarcely lit room that smells like sex.

His head feels heavy. He needs sleep.

She watches him with plump red lips half parted, brows slightly up.

'That's enough,' he gives her a short nod and moves her leg away as he stands up to leave.

Enough. Enough how? Well, not _enough_, of course, not nearly enough, but somehow she's just not what he needs right now. She's a book he won't read, he decides.

'We can go somewhere,' she smiles at his shoulder as he passes her by and he registers she's pretty under her heavy make up.

His head spins a little and he watches in a daze as she makes a catlike step forward and runs a hand down his chest, stopping right where his button line ends. Music carries from the front side of the bar in the meantime before another slow song starts playing. Heck, the place is really filthy.

'I'll help you forget,' she murmurs sweetly, casting a look at his wedding ring before her green eyes meet his.

He stares back for a moment.

'We can go some place,' she repeats her offer.

'Here's fine,' he replies and red lips smile gladly.

* * *

**_Eight Hours Earlier..._**

'Hey.'

Rory licks a lip, waiting for an answer, but there's only silence at the other end of the line. His silence meant for her.

'Jess?' she tries again, in case she didn't hear his reply.

Nothing.

She closes her eyes and rests back in the car seat, holding the mobile close to her ear, as if it were his palm. She can almost see his jaw clenching, almost feel the tightening grip of his hand over his mobile. He's not speaking to her. Not today. Not before he hears what she has to say to him. _Fair enough._

At least he's listening. _Of course he is. He's always been_, she realizes.

'Look, I deserve this, alright?' she starts and breathes in through her nose.

'I...'

She wonders if he's still listening. He is.

'I should've answered your calls earlier, should've talked to you about that, that day...'

... _that night_, she finishes inwardly. _About how I left without saying goodbye, without calling, without answering your calls, your texts, (your patience, your love, your everything)... I wouldn't be able to leave if I actually saw your face, do you know that? If I heard your voice, I_ ...

'I'm in Wyoming,' she breathes out.

His lack of response is expected yet conducts an unpleasant chill that soaks through her and makes her shift uncomfortably in the seat.

'I...'

Sentences are especially hard to finish today. She bites a lip, swallows and starts tapping her fingertips over the steer.

_I didn't sign the papers. Couldn't. But that you already know._

'I haven't drunk from Luke's coffee for over three months now and I'm officially agonizing,' she blurts out.

_I haven't seen you for over three months_, she means.

'The campaign's halfway through now,' she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks out through the car window. A kid walking her dog. A teenage couple making out behind a shop corner.

'There's, ehm, there's been a lot of traveling around... I managed to sneak a peek around Elvis' house while passing through Tennessee,' she continues. 'Took a red stone from the Grand Canyon last month and put it in my purse, but yesterday I found out it had gone to chalk while rummaging for a hair pin...'

She thinks she hears him breathe and closes her eyes to the sound (even if it's imaginary, it's the best sound she ever knew) and thinks of the slow rise and fall of his chest and how it would speed when she pressed a palm to his pectoral and whisper something inappropriate in a crowded grocery store or wherever.

'Campaign's great,' she forces a fake smile he can't see and therefore lets it fade quickly. 'and traveling is really fun...'

_... but it's not what I expected._

'Everything's fine...'

_... but nothing's right._

'We met so many people...'

_... but none of them made any friends._

'... I feel like we've talked to half of the nation...'

_... but those talks never meant anything._

'I still feel excited...'

_... yet so meaningless._

'I talked to Luke...'

_... because I didn't muster up courage to call you._

'Congrats on your book, I just knew you would make it, once you set your mind to finding a publisher. He mentioned something about Truncheon... what is this place, I'm genuinely intrigued...'

She swallows and bites on her bottom lip.

'I... I hope you're doing okay.'

_... and I really hope that you still think of me sometimes._

'... and I miss you,' she breathes out. 'Jess?'

She can't hear him breathe anymore.

'Okay, I'll hang up now... I guess. Bye, Jess.'

She closes her mobile and chokes on a breath.

* * *

Here's fine, he has just said and the redhead smiles in delight.

Two hours later he's taking the steps to his apartment, his eyes itchy with lack of sleep.

'Hey.'

Rory. He stops and gives her a quick glance before he passes her by and enters his apartment.

* * *

'Jess...' she breathes out as he passes her by, but he doesn't turn back.

She enters after him and closes the door hesitantly.

He throws his keys on the sofa and takes his jacket off to toss over the cushions.

She watches as he moves towards the kitchen box and pours himself a glass of water. His step is a little awkward and she realizes he's been drinking. Her eyes skim the living room and register the empty bottle of _Jack's_ on the coffee table.

He's been listening. Of course he was.

'Jess.'

He turns to give her a sideways glance and his eyes are bloodshot. He doesn't seem angry, though. His look is sharp, yet it's missing something. There's certain... blankness behind the intensity of his gaze that scares her.

He's not interested in what she has to say, she realizes. It strikes her. Hard. For a moment her throat tightens and she can taste her own saliva.

'I quit the campaign this afternoon,' she says in a small voice and feels her eyes burn. _Tell me I'm not too late_.

'Dreams aren't what I thought they would be,' she admits and looks away before she musters up courage to search for his reaction. Some reaction. Any.

His features don't seem to shift and she steps closer, thinking maybe her eyes are too blurry and failed her.

'I'm sorry it took me this long to realize it,' she adds and her voice falters.

He stares back at her and she still finds no signs of understanding, or anger, or concern... or anything. Then she smells a sweet perfume and her face suddenly feels numb, blood drawn back.

He sees the change in her expression and lets a slow breath out through his nose.

'I see,' she utters, staring into nothing. 'Does...' she pauses for a sharp intake of air, 'does she mean anything?'

The cold laugh that crosses his eyes without reaching his lips tells her no. She relaxes.

'Good.'

Their eyes lock as she says a quiet

'I'll stay then. Do you mind?'

There. There's something in the look he's giving her now she hasn't seen in a while. It lights his eyes up for a second before it's gone and she remembers why she came back here. She allows herself to feel hope.

'Okay,' he says in a low, tired voice.

Then he's turning away from her and leaves the empty glass on the counter before he walks by and disappears into the bedroom. His bedroom. She made it like this, she thinks.

Rory moves to sit on the sofa, hands stiff in her lap, looking around the apartment that used to be her home.

She made things so, she thinks over and over, and it hurts. But there's hope, she realizes. She's made her choice to stay and he didn't stop her. This could be a start.

She sighs and stands up to take some covers for the sofa to sleep on tonight.

* * *

_**Two Hours Earlier**_

'How do you want it?' the redhead asks as she reaches to touch his waist but he catches her wrist midway.

'We're not having sex,' he shakes his head with a bitter smile.

'Whatever you say, boss,' she dismisses, sneaking her hand away and leaning into him, reaching up for his cheek.

He pushes her back patiently.

'I mean it,' he says gently yet firmly. Suddenly he's feeling very sober and she can see that in the change of his demeanor.

'O-kay,' she lifts her hands in mock surrender and steps back, slightly irritated. 'What do you want then?'

'How many clients do you have per night?' he asks instead of a reply.

Her brows knit.

'Are you a cop?' she asks, a bit alarmed. Her look darts towards the door behind his back and he shakes his head.

'I'll pay you to not have sex with any customer for one night,' he says curtly.

She looks at him incredulously. She can't understand.

He takes his wallet out and leaves some bills on the sofa, confirming his words. Her look moves between the man and the money before she grabs it to slip into one of her high heeled boots. Then looks back at him.

'Why?'

He shrugs.

'Does it matter?' he smiles bitterly.

She gives him a slow nod. A man not sharing a toy isn't that shocking. A man not wanting to play with a toy is, though. Anyway, it doesn't really matter.

'You sure you don't wanna...' she tries again.

'I'm sure,' he nods.

'Okay then,' she shrugs and sits back on the sofa. 'I guess I'm yours for the night to not have sex with, then.'

* * *

_**A/N: I'm curious, what do you make of the last part of this? I think it's more than a bit blurry and might need reworking to get my point through, so please, let me know what you think.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: If anyone has doubts about me owning anything, they are welcome to check, 'cause I don't...

_AN: Thanks to everyone who gave this story a chance to** not** be **a heartbreak**, and I'm doing my best not to disappoint (because this story is about _**walking**** a distance, not about making it longer**_... you'll see what I mean, I think:)). _

_Also special thanks to **allessandramari** for being the first to support this story! I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Jess opens his eyes and blinks black and white dots back.

There's a short moment of numbness, right before he remembers his own existence, an intake of air before he lets the world slip back into his mind. Then, he's starting to remember stuff._  
_

Like his head, threatening to explode, still cloudy with last night's hydroxyl daze. Like him being a pathetic joke of a man, entering filthy bars and not even being able to make use of their filthiness. Like the fact that there is a woman sleeping on the sofa in his living room. A woman? No. _Rory_. His wife. Somehow he still can't refer to her as 'a woman'. She's always been the italics in his print, and, maybe, despite his efforts, she's ever gonna be.

Jess sighs and sits up in the bed, rubbing his face.

_Does she mean anything?_ Rory's words from last night echo in his head. _I'll stay then._

_I'll stay then._

_I'll stay then._

_I'll stay._

_Stay. Stay. Stay._

Like breaking waves, the words reverberate in the closed space of his head and his ears pound with the sound.

_Would she, really?_ he thinks then. A dry chuckle escapes his mouth. _No, of course not_, he shakes his head and gets off the bed. She's saying one thing, then she's doing another. That's what she does. He expects to find the sofa empty. Sheets neatly folded, maybe a brief note on top. If she was in the mood, that is. Another one of her '_I tried but couldn't_' standoffs.

He slips a tee and a pair of jeans on and walks out of the bedroom barefoot.

The sight of Rory seeping her coffee, legs hanging from one of the high stools by the bar plot, catches him by surprise.

'Hey,' she looks up above her reading glasses and puts the paper down.

His face freezes for a moment before he mumbles a deliberately indifferent 'Hey.'

Shyly, 'I bought some bagels.'

Jess passes her by on his way to the fridge without granting her with a reply.

_I'll stay then_, gnaws at the back of his mind.

I'll stay. She stayed.

_Now what?_

He thinks about it and decides to ignore her as much as he can. He really doesn't know how to handle this. She decides to waltz back into his life (it used to be _their _life, remember?), back into his apartment (was once their apartment, but who cares anymore?), and God knows where else, and it's another one of her decisions that she makes by herself and only informs him afterwards. She marches in and out of his life with such innocent ease in her stride, and what does he do in return? Nah, he's too cool to do _anything_ about it, he simply watches as she comes and goes and takes whatever she pleases from him, but he's too cool to admit it scares him shitless. The fact that she can. She can do this and it will still matter.

She's a thorn in the heart that aches with every heartbeat.

He pours himself a glass of cold milk and casts her a quick sideways glance from the corner of his eye. Her hair is gathered up in a loose bun, hair-ends still damp from her morning shower, and air smells like fruity shower gel and her coffee. Suddenly he can't disregard the fact that, without her, this place could never be home. Without her, nothing smells, tastes, feels right anymore. Nothing feels at all. Nothing holds the same meaning. Any meaning at all.

He can't still quite grasp why she stayed.

_But there's that thing, right? She's not easy to grasp._ She left without a word, saved for a telegraphic goodbye note, then sent him the divorce papers, refusing to discuss any of this.

_I think one day you'll see it's for the better of both of us._

_You're acting insane._

_Good thing it's my life to mess up then, isn't it?_

_No, Rory, it's not. It's not _your_ life, it's my life, too..._

Then, after hunting him for two months to sign, she had him sign them. BUT, of course, refused to sign them herself. Hilarious!

Then, instead of granting him with at least a poor resemblance of a conversation (_of course_ she wouldn't talk to him, _why_ would she?), she ran half the country away to follow her dream (her big dream, he would've done anything to have her have her dream, _anything, _but it didn't seem to matter). YET, three months later, she quit her (big) dream to come back here.

Back here to what? Back here to whom? Home? Marriage? Did those still exist, because last thing he remembers, she brushed them off and he can't quite recall any further occasions when she tried to prove otherwise. That is, _until_ one afternoon she decides she could enjoy being his wife for a couple of days (hours? who knows?) more. Mess. Everything's fucking mess.

Jess rubs his temples with point and middle finger, then leaves the empty glass in the sink. He needs to get out of here.

'I'm off to work,' he sighs as he passes through a cloud of fruity odor mixed with coffee.

* * *

He works late and it's after midnight when he unlocks the door to his apartment. He's spent but it makes it easier to keep his focus away from unwanted thoughts.

'Hey,' she greets him from the sofa. Her laptop lies open in front of her. She's been waiting up for him. For some reason, it makes him sad.

'There's Chinese, if you're hungry,' she tries.

Deja vu.

Didn't they already have this conversation, a couple of hours ago?

_ Hey. Hey. There's food. I gotta go. _

'Night, Rory,' drains out of his mouth and he's heading for his bedroom.

'Jess...' comes behind his back. A little urgently. A leap of courage, springing out of her tiny form.

She's begging him to turn back. Turn back to everything they used to share when each saw the world in the other one's eyes.

He doesn't want to turn back. He wants to close the door of his room, lock it and never get out again.

'Yeah?' he turns back wearily.

Her face is a knot of emotions. Hope. Embarrassment. Hurt. Fear. But mostly hope.

'Goodnight,' she smiles a small insecure smile and he gives her a short nod before he disappears into his bedroom.

* * *

The sound is shrill and raspy and dies out as quickly as it appeared.

Rory's eyes dart open instantly and she's out of her bed.

She opens his bedroom door without knocking and stumbles inside in a rush.

He's sitting up in bed, breathing heavily, palms pressed against rumpled sheets.

She takes the distance in two quick steps and kneels at the foot of the bed, putting a hand over his legs instinctively.

'It was a dream,' she says soothingly, giving his knee a small squeeze. 'It was just a dream.'

He's staring ahead, eyes lost, still fighting to even his breathing. His shirt is damp and sticks to his back.

She swallows hard.

'Jess...'

There's pure terror in his eyes when he looks at her and she doesn't know if it's because he saw something terrible in his dream or because he's terrified by her presence in his bed.

She moves forward before she has time to decide against it, and she's drawing him close, gathering him in her arms tightly. He lets her hold him, stiffly at first, but then she can feel him relax against her and lean into her touch.

'It's okay,' she whispers and then he's lifting his arms, closing the embrace. 'It's okay,' she repeats comfortingly and sways him in her arms, as his fists close around the back of her pajamas. His grip tightens and she can feel him hold on to her for dear life.

Sometimes she thinks this is the only way they were ever able to hold on to each other. For dear life.

'You're gonna be okay,' she sways him soothingly and kisses his damp temple. 'You're gonna be okay.'

They stand like this for some time, lost in the familiar yet long suppressed comfort of holding each other.

When the moment passes, he loosens his grip and draws back and she lets him, although reluctantly.

'Jess...'

'Why are you here?' he doesn't let her finish.

The moment is over, reality sets back in.

'I heard you scream and I...'

'Why are you here in Philadelphia, Rory?' he asks coldly and she winces at the skepticism soaking his voice.

She looks down and starts picking at the end of her yellow sheep pajamas.

'I came back,' she admits, allowing a guilty vibe in her voice.

'Why.'

His question is not really a question. It's a 'why' with a period instead of a question mark. He's not trusting her whatever she says.

'I...' her voice cracks. '... wanted to.'

'Bullshit.'

'I missed you,' she insists, a trace of accusation in her voice. She missed him, does he not believe this?

'It didn't stop you from sending me divorce papers,' he points out analytically.

There's so much cynicism in his tone. _Yet all deserved_, she reminds herself. She sighs.

'I never signed them,' her voice falters, but she's sitting at the foot of his bed calmly, waiting for him to burst out, cave in, whatever he decides should be her sentence.

'I did,' he says quietly and it catches her unprepared.

Her eyes follow him as he gets up and puts a pair of sweatpants on, then an old sweatshirt over the damp tee.

' Was it...' she finds her voice again and it comes out small, so small, she's feeling like she's watching herself through the wrong side of a telescope. 'Was it because you don't love me anymore?'

He stops at the door and gives her an unreadable look.

'No,' he says after a moment of inner debate. 'It wasn't.'

_I didn't sign because I don't love you anymore. I signed because I do._

He wouldn't lie to her about this.

She lets herself relax just a little.

'I need some air,' he says then and walks out, leaving her alone in what was once their bed.

Was it because you don't love me anymore? No. It wasn't.

Rory closes her eyes to the thought, then gets up and goes back to the living room where she prepares to spend a sleepless night on his sofa.

**To be continued...**

* * *

_AN/ I do wanna know what you think..._


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I disclaim everything, including Gary Chapman's quote.

A/N: _Love is not something that strikes you at some point and miraculously stretches over time. Love is a choice that you make every day. To me, this is what this story's about._

* * *

She watches him shave in front of the steamy mirror, peeking through the half open bathroom door.

_He's gone skinnier_, she thinks. Not much, but some.

_He never eats at home_.

He's always headed out for work, then he's working late. Or maybe it only feels late to her, now that she's unemployed after quitting the campaign. Looking for a job isn't her thing, she realized lately.

He's been evading her ever since that night she appeared at his doorstep.

_But he's always coming back_.

That's true. During the last couple of weeks, he's never spent the night out.

_Does she mean anything?_ echoes in her head.

If there was really someone in his life before that night, Rory wants to believe it didn't mean anything.

_He wouldn't let me stay if he had something going on._ Or at least she hopes so.

Bare-chested, clad in only a pair of ink-blue jeans, he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror with the razor blade in his right hand, moving it slowly along his jaw. She thinks time stops ticking for a moment.

'Shit,' he hisses then and presses his thumb to the cut skin. It's a small cut on the left side of his chin and it will heal in a couple of days.

Rory bites a lip and steps back, then continues her way to the kitchen. _Does every cut heal_, she thinks. And, secretly, she feels guilty for every cut he suffers.

Jess looks to his side, staring at the place where she has just been, peeking through the bathroom door. He feels a knot tighten in his stomach. His hands hang loose by his side, one holding a razor, the other forgetting about the cut on his chin. _How long will it take for her to stop feeling guilty_, he wonders.

* * *

He comes back from work to look for a forgotten file and hears her from the doorway. Her laughter springs free and pure, coming from the living room, mixing with the sound of the TV show she's watching.

He stops in his track, unable to make another step. Images start crossing his mind, and although he can't really see her from the corridor, her face appears before his eyes and her eyes are laughing along with her lips. He sees them standing in the sand. He can smell salt and her shampoo, feel her hair against his lips, sun warming their skin, and she's laughing. He's kissing her hair, then her face, her neck, bare shoulder, his palm sliding up the smooth skin beneath her blouse. She's no longer laughing, but letting air out in small gasps, closing her arms round his neck for balance.

Jess shakes his head, snapping out of the memory, and his fingers close tighter against the keys. Then he's opening the door again, getting out as fast as he can, as if his life were up to the celerity of this escape.

Readiness is a fleeting moment and it's gone before he knows if it's readiness to stay or readiness to let go.

* * *

She finds the web page loaded on her laptop, although she doesn't remember searching it. It's a job offer. _The Inquirer_ gathering staff for a new column, applications accepted by the end of week.

Rory looks around the empty living room. She's positive she didn't open that particular page. She double checks the address before she takes her purse and leaves.

* * *

He comes back from work to an empty apartment. It's the first time he doesn't find her waiting up for him in the last month and he feels his heart quicken its pace.

'Rory?' he tries. His voice is dry and it surprises him how desperate it comes out.

He starts opening every door until every room is checked and every light is on.

I'll stay then.

_How long was she supposed to wait, huh?_

He rushes into the living room for a second time to find the note he half expected. It's lying folded on the kitchen table, right where the divorce papers used to lie months ago. Blood drains out of his face and he opens the note numbly, his fingers cold around the paper.

_There's wine in the fridge. I got the job. Thank my mysterious virtual friend from me, I'm off to see mom, brb tomorrow afternoon._

_Rory_

He closes his eyes and allows himself to feel relief.

He can't force himself to not love her, he realizes. But he can't force himself to trust her again, either. Then, there's that thing. Tomorrow. He realizes, for the first time in months, he wants tomorrow to come.

**To be continued...**

* * *

_A/N: I do wanna know what you think._


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing.

* * *

_Right after they ran away, life started to feel like a thick haze of love, lust and inspiration, wrapped around merely existing in synch. They were sick. Sick by being unhealthily upbeat. There was no big job, no great project, nothing really meaningful behind being together. But being was just as simple as breathing. And breathing each other in seemed enough to keep them alive. As simple as that.  
_

_Falling deep while feeling high. Losing themselves yet finding their way back.  
_

_Whole days spent in bed not feeling time slipping away. Just because. Because every portion of time grasped between four walls was worth the seek when it led into that packed momentum of insane happiness they shared._

_I'll take you around the world, he had whispered the morning after they got married. They spent their honeymoon in a middle class motel in Nevada where he bought what seemed like dozens of books and read to her about distant places, places she'd never been to, places around the world. She didn't mind the pun, as long as she woke and fell asleep to the sound of his voice._

_Then, they moved back to Yale. She had to study. He had to work two places so she could study. But it was okay. It was kind of exciting._

_ He had taken one of her textbooks one morning, holding it in one hand as he balanced his tea mug in the other, clad in only a pair of briefs, his unlit morning cigarette propped behind his ear, and went around the miniature kitchen of their rental, reciting,  
_

_**'... a conservation law states that a particular measurable property of an isolated physical system does not change as the system evolves. In a closed system the total momentum is constant. This fact, known as conservation law of linear motion and energy...'**_

...

Rory opens her eyes to darkness. Then closes them again, determined to get some sleep, but the images that emerge when she does make her eyelids burn and she opens them again.

She blinks apprehensively. Licks a lip. Shifts to her back. Pulls the covers up. Then down. It's no use, but she needs to do something with her body or she thinks her mind is about to explode as memories pile up. Coming in flocks, memories are birds that take one's mind away and sometimes never get it back.

Rory shakes her head and shifts again. This has been going on for a week now. It's becoming unnerving.

_..._

_'We keep this,' he said, waving her textbook in a vague gesture towards the rest of the apartment, 'and we keep this,' he nodded between her and himself, 'and no matter what changes, you'll still be my wife.'_

_'You growing soft, Mariano?' she chuckled, making a step in his direction._

_'It's the conservation law, Gilmore,' he mock scorned. Then, in a low voice 'And_ _I'm pretty sure I'm not growing soft.' _

_That day she missed her first class and he got to work one hour late._

...

Her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and she discerns the outlines of bookshelves, taking up the whole wall that separates their rooms. Some of those books he bought during their honeymoon. When he tried to take her to all those different worlds he'd promised to. Ironically, now they're all those worlds apart.

She did realize they would be sharing the same apartment and not the same bed when she came back into his life, but the reality of their separation started coming into much fuller scope in the last couple of days. Especially in the last couple of days.

Tonight they ate dinner. It was the first time he didn't fake an excuse to fleet into his room, but actually maintained a vague conversation about _The Inquirer_ and her newly discovered cooking skills (_'You know, microwaving is hardly called cooking.' 'When I put it in a plate and eat it for dinner, it is.' 'Huh.'_)

Rory shifts again and turns to her side. Her mind reels back to when they were still together, back to his jaw angle and the way it used to feel against her lips. The way she felt against his torso as he steered her backwards until they hit the kitchen counter and both chuckled. The effect she could produce on him by only running her nails down his nape and applying small pressure over his pulse spot with her tongue. The way he would first tense up and then move further onto her, navigating her round the coffee table and lowering her over that same sofa she was now spending her nights alone in.

_Enough_.

She sweeps the covers off and switches the night lamp by her side. Squints in the light and fumbles for her copy of _The Sound And the Fury_.

As her eyes skim along black lines over white rectangles, words five years old rebound in her head.

* * *

Jess wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling his stomach is about to drop out. He sits up in the bed and blinks. His throat is dry and he feels feverish, every muscle of his body both wired up and weak at the same time. God, he's really thirsty. _  
_

He gets up and walks over to the bathroom. Then rinses his face, drinks cold water from cupped hands, waiting for the painful pumping in his temple to go away. It doesn't. Every damn heartbeat drills holes into his skull.

_This is ridiculous._ _Fucking ridiculous_.

Then his eye catches sight of a shower gel tube, propped on the glass shelf above the sink. He stares at it with such absurd intensity, it makes him feel really stupid. But he can't tear his eyes away. He takes the tube into his hands and slowly opens the tap, bringing it up to his nose. Then suddenly the dream he woke up to minutes ago reappears in his mind and his palms start to feel sweaty.

_His palms are sweaty when he brings her wrists up above her head and holds them there as his eyes search hers. A silent question meeting sloppy smile, then her hips against his, lips plump and soft against his throat. Be with me, she mumbles in a ragged exhale and it's all he needs. Then he loses his head. And then there's nothing but her._

Jess opens his eyes and drops the tube into the sink, as if it suddenly burnt in his hands.

Then goes back to his room, opens his laptop and does the only thing that comes to his mind - starts typing, oblivious to the fact that the light in the living room was on when he passed through the corridor a minute ago.

* * *

Rory looks at her watch and searches around the long brightly decorated hall for what seems to be the hundredth time this evening.

He has to be here. She saw him bring his suit back from dry cleaning this morning. Almost mustered up enough courage to ask him if he wanted to go together, but decided against it, hiding behind her morning mug of coffee, studying his patient yet distant expression.

_If he wanted to go together, he would've asked._

He didn't.

_He didn't even mention the ceremony was tonight. Never told me he got nominated in the first place.  
_

She has made a decision to not push things too far, give him space, be thankful they're at least able to lead some semblance of everyday conversation. Yet, here she is.

_Lurking_.

But, come on, she has to be here when he climbs onto that small podium and holds his monosyllabic speech. She can't imagine _not_ being here when he does. She can't imagine being anywhere else.

Then she spots him cross the room and he's on his way out, so she leaves her drink on the nearest tray and follows.

_What the hell..._

She follows quickly, trying to not lose him in the mash of people.

_Even you wouldn't miss your first Reader's Award nomination... Or maybe you will. Tonight._

'Jess...'

He turns back, surprise clearly written over his face. What are you doing here, his eyes are asking.

A fake excuse crosses her mind - been sent to report on the event, and what a surprise to meet him here, is he one of the guests too?

'Where...' she pauses one step from him to catch her breath.

_Where is everything you used to love about me?_

_What are you doing here, Rory?_

He's keeping the eye lock silently, not putting the question out into the air. Fragments of time and space realign between them as she stares into deep brown that guards his emotions with such mastered aptitude.

'Where are you going?' she finishes and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

He regains a nonchalant demeanor and quickly shrugs her question off.

'Come on, are you really gonna miss your first nomination?' she doesn't give up.

The look on his face clearly shows he will. Gladly.

'I know you don't want me here,' she looks down then, feeling awkward. 'I didn't mean to intrude,' she admits as a deep crimson creeps up her cheeks.

During the last two months, she often felt as if he's been patiently waiting for her to go away. Now she feels that same pang in her chest and it hurts in a dull, discouraging way.

'I was just gonna watch and then leave, I promise,' she mumbles apologetically. 'I just had to see this. I ... couldn't not see it, right? I always knew you could make it to that podium and wouldn't miss it for the world...'

'I'm not going back in, Rory,' he sighs.

The pang in her chest grows.

She takes a breath in but words don't come.

'Why?' she asks then.

She can't understand. Doesn't he want to be here?

He shrugs slowly and then she knows. It's not because he doesn't want to be here, it's because he doesn't believe he belongs here.

'It's not a mistake, Jess.'

A hint of surprise across his eyes. She sees it before he can cover. So she's right. It makes her bolder and she takes another step forward, killing the distance.

'This nomination is not some random coincidence. Just... trust me here, okay?'

His features still for a moment and she loses her voice. Takes a breath. Then reaches up and takes his face into her palms, stands up on her toes and kisses him fully on the mouth, catching his lips between hers, not giving him time to pull back before she changes angle and deepens it. It's a sweep-off-the-feet-tonight-we-make-babies kiss. Quick, hard and then over.

Their foreheads touch and she feels a wave of heat wash over her, leaving pins and needles behind.

'I should go,' she breathes out and goes round him without mustering the strength to search his reaction.

Blood rushes into her head as she quickens her step and she can't see, can't hear, can't think clearly. The only sound in her head is the one of her heart thumping madly.

Jess stays motionlessly for some time, staring at the place where she has just been, standing on her toes. He doesn't turn to look after her when she leaves.

Minutes pass. How many, he doesn't keep track.

When he makes another move, it's towards the hall. He checks his back pocket for his speech.

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: It matters what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I disclaim everything. Period._

* * *

Jess pauses and runs a hand through his hair. Takes a breath, lets it out. Then another one. Loosens his already loose tie, then decides on undoing it completely, letting the two ends hang lonely on both sides of his collar. Closes his eyes.

_I'll stay then. _

Opens them again.

After the official part of nomination ceremony ended, he faked an excuse to leave early. He wandered around the city aimlessly, looking for air. He would do this every now and then, letting his feet lead him, whenever he needed to clear his mind. He ended up sitting on a corner curb stone near _5th and Market_ _Str.,_ staring at the traffic lights. Watching them change color provided some abstract sense of comfort. Red to green.

He unlocks the front door with a sudden urge. In a few quick steps, he enters his living room to find the lights on.

A half packed suitcase next to the sofa. The room tilts. Yellow turns red.

His eyes move on to the foot of the sofa where he finds her sitting, leaning forward, arms wrapped self-consciously round thin form. She doesn't make a sound. Shoulders shake up and down wordlessly but this silence feels a lot like screaming.

He licks a lip and tastes regret. _I know you don't want me here._

Crosses the distance numbly to sit next to her.

As he bends to catch sight of her eyes, he finds them squeezed shut. She's biting her lips white so she won't make a sound.

___I should go._

'Hey. Rory.'

Her eyes squeeze tighter.

He blinks apprehensively. When he was younger, much younger, about four years old, he believed he could make bad stuff go away if he blinked fast enough. When he casts another look towards her, her tears are still there, streaking her cheeks.

He watches as another tear rolls down freckled porcelain and edges on her chin. He reaches up to brush it away and the touch makes her quiver.

'Come 'ere.' He drapes an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in.

She lets him. Another pair of arms round her to secure her heart. But a heart has no safe ways, one learns with time. Especially when you made the mistake to shred yours to another and then tried to tear them apart. Her shoulders start shaking harder.

'Shush,' he draws her to his chest and soothes her hair.

When he hears her voice, it's a suffocated sob that dies out almost as soon as it comes out. It's quiet, so quiet it can't be heard from the other end of the room, yet loud enough to cut him in two.

He pulls her closer to rest her weight on him completely and his chest shakes along with every choked breath she takes.

'It's okay,' he tries to convince both of them and rests his chin in her hair, swaying her in his arms. 'It's okay.'

He rocks them forth and back and presses his lips to her hair.

When her sobs subside, he brings them down to lie on the sofa. He feels her cheek damp against his chest and wraps his legs round her, as if this could protect her from anything.

Muffled against his shirt,

'Will you ever forgive me?'

He imagines his heart is a matchstick. It takes less than ten seconds to burn out.

His arms close tighter around her and he knows his pulse runs through both of them now.

Gradually, her shoulders relax, and she surrenders to the possession of his hold. He keeps his breath for a while.

Then, quietly,

'Stay. Please.'

* * *

_A/N: I'd like to know what you think._


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Come check._

* * *

He hears the front door click open, then closed, and she fumbles into the room, looking a lot like a wet bird. Damp hair streaks stick to her cheeks and she brings the smell of spring shower. It's like a portion of rain sneaked into the room along with her.

'Reporting straight from the eye of the storm, eh?' he comments without tearing his eyes away from his notes spread all over the kitchen table, amusement written beneath his smirk.

She makes a dirty face as she passes him by and he sneaks a secret look as she takes her soaking coat off and heads for the bathroom.

'There's coffee,' he notes behind her back and she mumbles something incomprehensible in approval. Then he hears the shower running and his smirk grows.

When she comes back into the living room, she's clad in a pair of black tights and a loose sweatshirt, wet hair gathered up in a messy bun. She pours herself a cup of hot coffee and moves to sit across from him at the paper-covered table.

'Inspiration finally struck?' she asks good-naturedly as she takes one of the sheets spread over the table in her hand and inspects it.

Jess makes a face and grunts something almost inaudible in reply that can be generally interpreted as '_Fucking editing_'.

She skims the sheet and then takes another one, checking the page number. Then another.

Jess throws her a look.

'You don't have to read it all, you know,' he says a bit moodily, between a joke and a warning.

'Shush,' she dismisses absentmindedly, then stretches her hand open. 'Can you give me a pencil?'

He frowns but she's not looking.

She sneaks the pencil out of his hand without tearing her look off the script and he licks a lip agitatedly.

'Look, Rory...' he starts, reaching to get his pencil back.

'I said shush,' she pushes his hand away with gentle stubbornness. Then looks up and the purest shade of blue pierces his eyes. 'Just gimme a minute... please?'

Jess blinks wordlessly for a while and when he's finally ready with a reply, she's writing frantically on an empty sheet of paper, noting page numbers and paragraphs she's referring to.

He watches her for a while. She's deep in concentration, caught up in the narrative and doesn't notice when he stands up.

He takes the cigarette pack from the counter and goes out onto the small balcony. The storm is out now and there's only the quiet tap-tapping of leftover rain and the sight of a puddled Sunday afternoon New York backstreet. It looks old, and surely a bit crappy, too, but right now it's fresh from the rain. Like a favorite pair of worn jeans you washed and decided they could get you through another week. Jess often feels his life is that crappy worn backstreet that somehow will never shine with significance or glory or any other form of greatness. Yet, he has his moments. Through the last couple of weeks, he feels life has been surprisingly kind, giving him another and then still another week of comfort in those favorite worn jeans. Life can be good... at times. Now is one of those times.

Women are crazy, he has learned from his experience so far. They fall for the bad boy character, thinking they can somehow take control over his badness. He's always had that deep laid cruelty for the people he loves. The few. But he also has kindness, he learned through the years, and even through his ill-disguised fear (cruelty is always fear, isn't it?), he's always had kindness for her. Love. Affection. Inner strength. Inner weakness. He has everything when it comes to her.

He takes a portion of pristine air in and then mixes it with nicotine.

When he comes back into the room, he finds her sitting on the edge of the table, a bunch of sheets in her hand, smiling like crazy.

'I wanna show you something.'

'Huh,' he quirks an eyebrow suspiciously but smiles back unconsciously.

'Come,' she makes an impatient gesture with her hand and spreads the sheets before him over the table.

His look hesitates between her and the notes.

'It's a rough sketch of the first chapter and I have to read the whole thing in order to be positive,' she starts enthusiastically, 'but I thought if you reordered some paragraphs, they would really glue together...'

She jumps off the table and stands tall next to him, leaning over the notes.

'See,' she points at a particularly scribbled paragraph, 'this one at the beginning is a bit messy, but if you put it here,' she points at another sheet, 'right after the first part has ended, it starts sounding completely different.'

He rolls his eyes. He changed the place of that particular paragraph about a dozen of times already. Didn't work so far.

'Look at that part,' she doesn't give up. 'Just read it alone and see if it flows. Come on,' she urges, pushing the sheets into his hands.

He makes a face but gives it a look anyway. Reads. Pauses. Reads it again. Okay, maybe, just _maybe_ there's the tiniest possibility that it may sound legitimately this way.

'Then the other scene, the one in the theater,' she continues, moving on to another sheet, 'when the main character looks at the faces of the audience,' she points at that particular scene. 'I think you can try this in retrospection. Like, you start with him inspecting all those people, and he's like one of those creepy anti-social stalk-prone loonies, but then you start telling more about him, how he visits each of those plays twice, the first time he watches the play and the second time he watches the audience, and then he starts to feel familiar in a way, and then there's that thing, why he does all that, and then...'

She continues talking, but at some point he loses track of her words. There's only her presence, filling the room, honest and vibrant, and he watches her astounded. It's like he's watching her on mute and time starts ticking in slow motion as he makes a step to stand closer. He's hovering over her shoulder, his chest almost touching her back, and with every breath, she starts filling his lungs.

'I like that you made him older and plain,' she continues, oblivious to the slight shift of air behind her back.

'At first he looks uncomely, a little grotesque,' she gestures indefinitely, 'Like an ill-placed puzzle piece, he doesn't fill the pattern, but then,' she tilts her head to the side thoughtfully and his eyes trail a straight line down her neck, ' then he starts reminding me of _Bukowski_, the way he describes his lead gradually and makes you first judge him, then get know him and _then_ like him and not the other way around, and with every ne...'

Her voice falters as she feels his breath in her hair. He's not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the breeze of his breathing close to her ear. The room starts spinning slowly, colors dissolving into emotional blur.

'... with every next...' she pauses again and swallows, her throat dry, every cell of her body suddenly extremely aware of his presence behind her, thoughts of literature and misplaced paragraphs fading away quickly. 'With every next detail, he... he...'

He breathes her in and keeps her in his lungs. She smells like rain and caffeine and he lavishes in the feeling of getting high through simply breathing her in.

Hearing him take a slow deep breath makes Rory shiver. Her head starts to feel dizzy. She smells his cologne mixed with nicotine and a particular hunger starts grazing its way up her stomach, eliciting thoughts she's been trying to shut down for months. She blinks against her notes blindly, forgetting what she's been talking about.

'... he makes you... understand...' she licks a lip and tries to remember what she was supposed to understand.

Then she feels his chin against the crook of her neck, the touch feather-like, yet spreading goose bumps all along. Two-day stubble grazes her skin and a hot wave washes over her, leaving her burnt and thirsty.

'Jess...' her voice comes out like a dry whisper and she decides against using it again.

He lifts his hand to move a strand that got loose from her bun and touches his lips to a spot behind her ear. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, giving him unspoken permission. As he touches a hand to her waist, she leans back into him, lifting her own hand to cup his cheek.

He closes a second hand around her and they stay motionless for a while, eyes shut, reveling in the comfort this odd embrace brings.

Then she feels his lips on her neck. Slowly and softly, he touches his lips to delicate skin and pulls back. Then again. Carefully, like getting to know someone. When it becomes too much to bear, she turns into his arms and meets him midway, holding his face in both hands as their lips connect.

The kiss is an extension of the embrace, a display of relief, an unspoken truce they seal. Then, it changes.

He traces her bottom lip, tasting it briefly, and she closes her hands behind his neck, dissatisfied with the shortness of contact, trying to get more out of it. She feels him smile into the kiss and her lips move along with his before she tucks on his bottom lip, bringing him close, her nails grazing soft lines down his nape.

Long suppressed desire needs to be explored and the kiss starts a life of its own, breaking through months of growing apart, trying to rewrite the scars those months left.

He closes the gap between them completely and she has to step back and lean on the table so she won't lose balance. He moves along with her, pressing her flush against the wood.

He presses further and she lets out a weak squeal. He inches back, afraid he pushed this too much, but her hands find his collar and she seals their lips back together.

Blood rushes in all directions and the only thing that makes sense right now is getting closer.

She lets him lay her back on the table, scribbled sheets of paper falling to the floor.

She doesn't ask if he's sure. He doesn't ask if she's ready. They've been dancing around each other for too long. It's time.

* * *

When she wakes up later on, they're in his bed and she doesn't feel him next to her. The first thought in her head is he regretted this. Woke up, thought about it and left. She tastes copper in her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut before opening them again as she sits up in the bed, her temples pulsating painfully.

'Hey.'

Taken aback, she turns to find him resting on his elbow on his side of the bed, watching her with a mixture of affection and amusement.

She swallows the lump in her throat and lets a breath she didn't realize she's been holding, thanking god he can forgive.

'Hey,' she says back and lies on her side, mirroring his position.

* * *

_A/N: It matters what you think._


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Nothing. I own nothing._

* * *

**A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the feedback :)**_  
_

**Okay... hm... Peter. The reason I'm writing this here and not through PM is because I don't have any contact I can use, yet I felt the need to reply, so here comes a lengthy author's note. To anyone who's not interested in reading this, please feel free to skip ahead. **

**So, Peter. First, I wanna THANK YOU for being so honest when sharing your critical analysis, because everyone needs some constructive criticism, and so do I. You took the time to go through some of my stuff and point out the weaknesses, and (to me) this is quite helpful.**

** I have to admit that you're nothing but right about the hurt/comfort and melodrama genre, because that's exactly what this story is (as well as some of my latest stories, purposefully. The reason I haven't corrected my genre preferences in my profile info is because I haven't updated that since... last year?... I think). Anyway, I stand corrected and I admit to the world that I'm writing hurt/comfort and melodrama, so thank you for bringing this up :)**

**About the 'have a beta-reader' part, there is only one story that I worked on with a beta on a regular basis and it's called 'Literati Ltd.', so any critique concerning grammar and style should be directed to me and me only. **

**About writing stories as an excuse for sex, hm, I dunno, never particularly thought about it this way, but then again, maybe I am, only I was hoping my stories would be a good excuse, and not some 'dime-a-dozen cheap romance' (I would never aim for being 'cheap', believe me). I'll take your notes on that matter into consideration, and I'm not sure whether or not I'll change a lot in my writing, but at least I'll think it over, if that's anything.**

**About the essence and issues of the characters, I wrote them the way I saw them, minding the show (because I'm writing fanfiction here and not straight fiction). Thank you for sharing your opinion on what you'd rather do with them, though. I appreciate it.**

**I won't thank you for one thing, though. It's the use of words like 'incompetent', 'hypocrite' and 'pretentious', because I believe both you and I could do without these. I would've grasped your point without them, I assure you. I never claimed my stories to be the novel of the century, and it's like in every word you're comparing my stuff with something that's 'serous try' or, I dunno, great literature... I don't think I'm doing great literature, although it would be really nice if I were. But I'm not. Yet, I think FFnet was created for people who enjoy writing and reading stories for fun and I still believe there is a number of people who enjoy mine for a reason. I'm trying to experiment with style and I'm looking for ways to improve my writing. I'm having fun doing both. That's what I'm doing, and I never claimed to be doing anything but that.**

**In conclusion I'd like to (again) say THANK YOU for being 'so critical', because your review consists of a lot of constructive criticism that I could use, and also because it's rare to have someone honestly say what they did NOT like in your work. I'll have your thoughts in mind in my future writing, trying to judge my own strengths and weaknesses better, but I'd also like to make clear that I had my reasons to write stuff like I did, even if it were only 'cause I saw it happening so in my head.**

**All the best from me, as well.**

**Zornitsa**

* * *

She asks about his family and he laughs.

She smiles as well. She's thirty something, short and half Asian. She smiles. Then waits.

'Nothing to tell,' he shrugs.

She quirks a dark eyebrow above thick rimmed glasses.

'No family, no tale,' he explains simply.

She nods.

'So far,' she looks up from her business notepad, her voice pouring like sweet syrup over grapefruit, 'we covered you don't have a father, and you're telling me now you have no family, either. Interesting.'

For some reason, he associates shrinks with priests. Sheila May is nothing like a preacher man, though. She looks like an exotic bird in the middle of Truncheon's meeting room. Business suit and bright nail polish. British accent. Or maybe Australian. _Outlandish_.

_She's not a shrink_, he reminds himself. She's simply a journalist who majored psychology.

She waits, giving him time to give in.

Sheila May, one of New York's well trained sharks, sent over to cover an article on Jess Mariano, former small town hoodlum and recently self-made writer, making an appearance in a couple of modern literature journals. She's here to interview him on his new book. Looking for a weak spot where he'll bleed easily. A detective, taking down evidence. Evidence of his cluelessness, he thinks. Detecting blood in a million drops of water. That's how they train press sharks, isn't it?

_Interesting_, she's just said, sounding kind of amused.

Jess registers no accusation in her voice. Rudimentary surprise before he decides he doesn't really care if she's amused or not.

'Not really,' he counters.

He won't be anyone's entertainment. At least not under these circumstances.

'You don't like to talk about yourself much,' she notes.

_How very observing_, almost slips off his tongue.

'Yeah,' he nods.

'Why do you write, Mr Mariano?'

_Because I can't help it_, he thinks.

He doesn't reply right away, though. When Sheila May comes for a story, she doesn't leave before she gets one. And today she's come for something - something to make her column sell.

She's smiling but her eyes aren't and he knows she's concentrated on studying him. The boy who appeared from nowhere to become a selling author in New York. There has to be a story behind that. If there isn't, she'll simply have to invent it.

'I started scribbling stuff over napkins,' he rests back in his chair and enjoys the change in her demeanor. Suddenly, she's all ears, writing his every word in her notepad. She's come for a story, he'll give her one.

'At first, it was random,' he continues, 'just things that impressed me in a cafe.'

_Yeah, Sheila,_ he thinks as he watches her, _write this down_. _A boy who starts from scratch. People like to believe everyone has their chance. Hope sells._

'Faces, voices,' he goes on, 'Taking down word sketches of strangers. I didn't even bother to gather the scribbled napkins up from the table before I left the cafe, but somehow the habit grew on me and I started carrying a notebook around.'

_That's true_, he thinks to himself as he watches the woman take her notes. _Most of it._

_It's not even lying_, he reminds himself, _just telling selected truths_.

He doesn't tell her everything, of course.

He doesn't tell that the first napkin he wrote over in a cafe was when he was twelve, in a hospital cafeteria while waiting for nurse Heather to come back from the intensive care unit with news for his mother.

He doesn't tell her his first notebook was a sketchbook he found forgotten in Yale's backyard, while he was waiting for his nineteen year old wife to finish a class. She came from around a corner that day, her eyes swollen and watery, and told him her grandparents found out she secretly married some guy she dated in high school, and they wouldn't pay for her education anymore, _'And it's all a mess, Jess, such a terrible mess...'_. So much for being ridiculously happy and thinking you could get away with it. He told her he'd get a second job. Then spent many coffees time, writing in someone else's sketchbook, trying to prove he wasn't _some_ guy. That he didn't steal someone's forgotten girl.

He doesn't tell Sheila everything. Some things, he'd like to keep to himself.

'You're publishing a book with short stories now?' she asks.

'Yeah.'

'I hear your wife helped you edit?'

A hint of impolite curiosity, hunger for something spicy there. His eyes stay deliberately expressionless.

'That's right,' he confirms curtly.

'Is that why she denied the _Inquirer_'s offer to become a correspondent in Turkey?'

There. Quick shortness of breath, a shot that hit in the right place.

He blinks a couple of times, trying to take the blast unnoticed. Smiles. Ultimate politeness for people he can't stand.

'I guess that factored in,' he delivers vaguely.

She pauses and studies him for a moment, and he senses her circling. Scrutinizing him.

'Your main character is quite contradictory,' she continues then and he relaxes. She didn't smell the blood. That's good.

'Is there an autobiographical element, or is he entirely fictional?' she asks.

'Well,' he begins lazily while his mind spirals in a completely different direction, 'he's my character, so his thoughts are my thoughts, too,' he waves a hand in an indefinite gesture, 'but I'm not writing myself through him, if that's what you're asking.'

The conversation continues and he carries it on absentmindedly, while '_a correspondent in Turkey_' keeps trying to break a whole in his skull.

* * *

'Because I got a job offer? Please tell me you're not mad because of that.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I...'

She pauses, considering saying she planned on telling him but waited for a proper time. She sighs instead. What's the point of telling another untruth? She didn't tell him because she decided not to.

'I didn't want things weird between us again,' she admits, allowing a guilty vibe.

'Jeez,' he shakes his head in disbelief. 'We're back at square one, aren't we?'

'No,' she says calmly. 'We aren't.'

'Really? 'Cause last time you kept something from me, things didn't exactly go well.'

'Jesus, Jess, I decide to make one decision on my own and it gets you all mad, doesn't it?'

Their eyes lock in angry silence.

'I got a job offer,' she speaks then, her voice softer. 'I declined. End of story.'

He gives her a pointed look and it strips her to her bare hope.

'It's not one decision,' he says and for a moment she really believes it's not, because he can X-ray her. Her motives. Her stealth. She found that, years ago.

'It's the same decision,' he continues without spite in his voice, simply dissecting her, 'over and over again. You just leave me out of it and do what you do, expecting me to accept it.'

She opens her mouth to protest but he continues.

'You decided to have some time on your own because you wanted to follow your dream and you decided you should get a divorce in order to do that, but then you decided you didn't want it and wanted your marriage back, instead. All of this, you decided on your own.'

'I was confused, okay?' she steps back, feeling the weight of his words. Because he's telling the truth.

'I was graduating and had never really been on my own. I needed some... proof that I was who I thought I was and I... I needed to grow up without anyone taking the blows for me, without mom's shelter, without _you_ sheltering me... _especially_ without you sheltering me. I was so consumed by loving you, I never saw anything beyond you and me, and there were all those other possibilities, all those what if-s, I just needed to know, and I was going through a horrible, horrible time back then...'

'It's not because you were going through something, for fuck's sake, it's because you shut me out of it,' he bursts out and she feels her face go numb, tiny icicles pricking her skin.

'Fuck,' he rubs over his jaw, still fazed.

He moves to sit down on the couch and leans forward on his knees.

She watches as he runs a hand through his hair and then rests his head between his palms, trying to calm down.

She walks over to the couch to sit next to him.

'I love you, Jess,' she says quietly. 'So much.'

He looks ahead for some time before he turns to face her. His eyes bear no hostility when they meet hers. He's calmed down. He keeps the eye lock for some time. She waits.

'I know,' he says then. 'That's why it hurts when you shut me out.'

'I'm sorry. The way I left was... it was stupid, okay? But I needed to do it. You have to trust me here. And I did make my choice, over and over again. I chose you.'

He looks up at her.

'Emily came to Yale, you know?' Rory smiles, but the smile is bitter. 'Three weeks after we married, she stalked me after one of my classes, trying to talk me into an annulment.'

_'Everything is settled, it won't even have to pass as a divorce. I got three lawyers working on your case.'_

_Rory couldn't understand. _

_'What case?'_

_'Look, dear,' Emily started gently, understandingly, 'I know you're confused right now. You think you're in love, it all looks new and exciting, but trust me, once excitement's over, you'll ask yourself what you were doing. He didn't even finish high school, he's making a career in, what, Walmart? Do you honestly believe he won't leave you again the way he did numerous times? I can see you think he's worth it, but this boy is trouble, and he's only gonna drag you down with himself. If he really cared for you, he wouldn't have made you do this.'_

_'He didn't make me do anything.'_

_'The thing is, that's not love, dear, you're just looking for an escape. That's not the man for you, Rory. I love you and I tell you you're making a mistake. You have to trust me.'_

_'Does grandpa know you're here?' Rory asked and her grandmother's pursed lips gave the answer away. 'No,' she shook her head sadly, 'of course not.'_

_There was a swan song playing in her head and Rory bit a lip, trying to hold on to the chord._

_'You know,' she smiled, remembering something, 'our whole life we're afraid we're doing wrong, getting late for something. According to some twisted schedule, we're never doing enough, like we're part of someone's great master plan. Get into school, get a job, get a mortgage. And all we're really doing is dying.'_

_There was a look of pure disgust in Emily's eyes._

_'He told you this, didn't he? He fills your head with all those crazy ideas that surely look rebellious and romantic, but in fact they're just excuses to get past people, past responsibility.'_

_'He didn't tell me anything, grandma,' Rory shook her head. 'It's... it's just a random quote from a song. Never mind.'_

_Emily wondered what happened to her wonderful, innocent, smart daughter... granddaughter. _Granddaughter_._

_Rory wondered if this conversation was ever gonna get them anywhere. Probably not. Yet..._

_'Please don't make me choose, grandma,' Rory pleaded. _

_Emily couldn't understand what she had done wrong. Why was all this happening to her? To her beloved girls. Shame, it was all such a shame._

_Rory could feel time ticking, those final chords draining through her. She gave her grandmother the most insistent look she was capable of._

_'Please, don't make me choose. __I'll lose either way.' _

_And she did. That day she lost a grandparent._

Jess licks a lip and tilts his head to meet her eyes.

'Just... talk to me next time something happens, okay?'

'Next time,' she tastes the words.

'Next time.'

When he was going through something, years ago, she was patient. When he left. When he came back. Then left again, only to come back and act like insane, asking her to leave a life she'd been preparing herself for, to, what? Him? Hell, yeah. And what did she do? Instead of kicking him out, she chose to marry him. She chose him.

'You waited for me to have my shit together, so why wouldn't I?'

Fair enough.

Rory smiles. He gives her a slow nod.

And somehow, it makes sense. As far as they're still willing to make it until next time, it makes perfect sense.

* * *

A/N: Song quoted, Avicii vs Nicky Romero - 'I Could Be The One'.

_Special thanks for _**allessandramari** _for giving me the thumbs up._

**Any feedback is welcome.**


End file.
